How Do We Rise Up?
by Akiko Keeper of Sheep
Summary: In which Derek Hale is definitely neither caramel-filled, nor interested in Stiles Stilinski's naughty-bits or the condition of said bits. He doesn't ever want to hold Stiles' hand, or cuddle him, or do anything at all - ever - with Stiles that involves fishnets and sinfully-red lipstick and suggestive showtunes. And he definitely, definitely doesn't want to do...THAT...again.
1. Heads Up

01 : Heads Up

::::::::::

There were a multitude of ways Derek would have rather spent his weekend. Marathoning _Keeping Up With The Kardashians_, for instance. Or offering himself as a test subject to see if Erica could actually flay a werewolf's skin off in one strip like a sailor peeling a potato.

"You know, it's starting to look like we're gonna be here for a while, Derek. The least you could do is help me keep up a conversation," Stiles whined, wriggling so that his heels knocked against Derek's.

Volunteering as a rodeo clown. Finding out if that Chinese bamboo torture Erica mentioned was actually effective against werewolves. Letting her try out her idea about waterboarding him with wolfsbane-infused water.

"I'm dying over here, man, could you at least try to contribute a little to the cause of keeping me from gnawing my own tongue off in boredom?"

There was that thing she'd brought up about iron brands and tongues...

Ugh. He really needed to stop letting her watch the History Channel. Learning was all well and good, but at some point, Parental Controls needed to be utilized, if only to protect the rest of the pack from Erica's insidious experimentation. No matter how useful she claimed it would be.

"Dude!" Stiles' shoulders shifted against his. "Are you even alive back th-"

With a growl, Derek reared back sharply, smacking the back of his head against the back of Stiles', wincing a little at the audible thunk. That might have been a bit rougher than he'd intended - he didn't want to actually damage Stiles. Despite the fact that he was a nosy, motor-mouthed, jittery, irritating pain in Derek's hind end, Stiles wasn't actually so bad. He was loyal, after all, intelligent as hell, and braver than Derek would have expected him to be. Stupidly brave, usually, running into situations no human had any business being in, leaving Derek scrambling to save his skin.

Still. Good points aside, he was slowly yet surely convincing Derek that maybe sweet, slow, agonizing death might be the better option. For either of them.

"Mother Hubbard on a Jesus-humping pogo stick," Stiles whimpered. "When we get out of this, we are going to have words. A lot of words. Possibly angry in nature. I will talk the happy right out of your soul...assuming there is any happy left in there. Or that you have a soul. Because I'm starting to wonder."

"Stiles. If you don't shut up, I promise you the second I get out of this, I'm going to yank your scrotum up over your head."

"Harsh, dude. I'd almost believe it, if I didn't know that underneath that crispety-crunchety werewolf shell, you were full of ooey-gooey Stiles-loving caramel."

Derek knew for a fact that the only thing under his crispety-crunchety werewolf shell was bitter regret and more werewolf, but he didn't say that. He sighed instead, shifting against the thick chains that bound them together from shoulder to ankle.

Torture, maiming, consenting to watch reality television. So many things he could have done with his weekend that would have been infinitely less painful than being chained to My-First-Name-Is-A-Tragedy-We-Don't-Talk-About-It- Shut-Up "Stiles" Stilinski and dangled upside-down over a giant vat of a witch's potion that, besides having the potential to do something incredibly unpleasant to both of them, smelled absolutely noxious.

As if Stiles was reading his mind (although Derek knew he couldn't, because if he could, he would probably be recounting the history of waterboarding in excrutiating detail), he huffed, "Do witches just not have a sense of smell? Is anosmia a side-effect of being a soul-munching, cat-loving, amoral sister of Satan? Like having warts and stringy hair and being played by Sarah Jessica Parker in a cheesy Halloween movie?"

Derek sighed again. He wasn't sure if it was Stiles or the fumes causing the tight, white-hot pain behind his eyes to build, but he was willing to bet it was a healthy combination of both.

"Hey, since we're here, and it doesn't look like Granny Weatherwax is gonna be back any time soon, why don't we play a game?"

"No."

"We'll play Truth or Dare!"

"No."

"Well, okay, more like Truth or Truth, since we're not really in a position to do dares, I guess."

"No."

"I'll start. Hmm..."

They twisted a bit, the contents of the vat blurping sluggishly at them as Stiles was, for nearly an entire, blissful minute, completely silent.

"Ooh! Got it!"

Ignore him, Derek reminded himself. Ignore him, ignore him, ignore him-

"How old were you when you lost your virginity?"

Derek grit his teeth. Because, of course, in a situation where there was surely no way for things to possibly get worse, things had gotten worse. He might have guessed, though. Stiles had a way of making shit situations even more shit.

Derek had never actually made a list of things he never, ever wanted to talk to Stiles Stilinski about, ever, in any circumstances. Ever. If he had, the circumstances under which he'd lost his virginity - really anything involving Kate Argent or his family or...pretty much anything personal at all - would have been at least number four. And, God, if his internal monologue wasn't starting to sound way too much like the stupid kid for Derek's peace of mind. He should probably get that looked at.

"I'm guessing...fifteen? Sixteen?"

Ignore, ignore, ignore...come on, Hale, just ignore him, don't rise to the bait, don't cave his skull in with yours, just pretend you're alone in the woods or something, calming breezes and birdsong or what-the-fuck-ever, just-

"Or maybe you were a late bloomer...eighteen? Twenty?"

He wasn't going to murder the kid. He really wasn't. You didn't to that to packmates, even packmates that weren't really packmates, so much as they were irritating, oddly-endearing pack-hangers-on.

"Ohmygod, are you still a virgin?!"

Then again, murder might not be so outlandish an idea.

They swayed through the air in a slight, sickening circle as Stiles writhed gleefully. "Holy shit, that would be, like, the best thing ever!"

"...why?" As soon as the question spilled out, he regretted it. You don't engage, he snarled at himself. Never engage the Stiles!

Stiles snickered. "Oh, come on! You've totally got the good-looking bad-boy vibe going on, with your expensive car and all the leather and the brooding air of eternal self-imposed misery - girls love that kind of thing! It would be ridiculously, perfectly ironic if you never took advantage of that. Also, I'd finally have one up on you."

"Right. You're not a virgin," Derek drawled, rolling his eyes, even though the effect was lost without anyone around to witness it. And why, why was he still engaging?

"Dude, please. I'm so not a virgin. I've been thoroughly de-cherried. Defiled and tainted by the carnal arts. No white wedding dress for this Stilinski."

Derek wasn't sure why he bothered listening to Stiles' heartbeat - he didn't really care so much about the kid's virtue or lack thereof - but it was steady and honest, and he snorted.

"Right. Hope you didn't catch anything off the hooker."

"Ouch. That's low. I'll have you know, he wasn't a hooker at all. He was hot. And built. And totally into me."

"I'll have you know, I don't actually care about your pathetic pseudo-love-life."

"Pshaw. Gooey. Caramel. Center."

Snorting, Derek rolled his eyes again.

Wait...

"He?"

This time, Stiles snorted, and Derek could practically hear his eyeballs rolling. "Wow, you're on top of your game today, dude. Really bringing your observational skills to bear. Nothing gets by you, does it, Were-lock?"

"What?"

"It's a play on 'Sherlock', as in 'Sherlock Holmes'. I was making an amusing Sherlock Holmes reference to poke fun at the fact that you're one of the least-observant people I know. And I know Scott."

"I was with you up until you said 'amusing'."

"You know what? Your attitude sucks. Royally sucks. You'd think after all the crazy-ass drama with the crazy-ass people trying to kill everyone was over and done with, and you got yourself a pack, you'd lighten up, but I'm really starting to think you've forgotten how. What do you even do for fun?"

"Disembowl annoying high schoolers like you," Derek grumbled, wondering if it would be bad form to pop out his claws and pinch Stiles with them. He concluded that it was probably the sort of thing his mother would have grounded him for and decided against it. Headbutting the dumbass had been bad enough.

"You're not as scary when I've seen you faint like a society lady in a period film, you know."

Growling, Derek popped out his claws and pinched Stiles' wrist just enough to leave a mark without drawing blood.

"Ow!"

"I didn't faint. I was dying."

"Dude, you pinched me! That's it, I'm shunning you for the rest of this kidnapping. I'm totally shunning you. You are shunned."

"Oh, thank God."

"Shuuuuuunnnnn-nuh."

"Fine, whatever. Shut up."

But Stiles didn't shut up. No, he proceeded to sing the entire Beatles catalogue in chronological order until Derek's pack crashed their way in and rescued them. And he was very, very off-key.

When he finally had his head up over his ankles again and could think straight, Derek snuck a look at the teenager. Stiles was leaning against Scott, bottom lip jutting out, holding up his 'mauled and mangled (for-no-good-reason-thank-you-very-much-Derek)' wrist for Allison to inspect. The dark-haired girl was doing so with a ridiculous amount of sympathy, and Derek sighed heavily through his nose.

"I barely grazed you, Stilinski. Nut up."

"You know," Stiles drawled, turning his pout on Derek, "that's the second time you've mentioned my naughty bits today. Third, if you count your all-consuming concern for my reproductive health and lack of STDs. I'm sensing a pattern here."

"That I'm seriously contemplating ripping your testicles off?"

"I think you just like thinking about my testicles," Stiles said with a wry grin, pushing off of Scott. He wavered a bit in Derek's direction before, blinking heavily, he leaned precariously and stumbled.

Derek's hands twitched instinctively, ready to catch him instead of letting him faceplant, even though he deserved it. Scott would have complained, though, surely. And then he'd have an armful of Stiles, which definitely wasn't on his list of top ten things he wanted to happen. Ever. Even if it meant he'd get to throw Stiles' fainting comment back in his face.

He was saved from having to worry about it, though, because Stiles found his balance and shuffled for the door, Scott hovering worriedly behind him. He patted Derek on the shoulder companionably as he passed him. "It's okay, Derek. I know you can't resist me and my naughty bits. It's my animal magnetism."

Derek let his eyes slide shut as the remaining members of his pack surrounded him, raised eyebrows all around. Isaac even had the nerve to waggle his suggestively. Derek pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Just...just don't," he said tiredly.

And for the sake of his sanity (and their safety), he pretended they didn't cackle at him all the way home.


	2. Hands Up

02 : Hands Up

::::::::::

"Stiles."

The owner of the name gave a jerky half-shrug that managed to convey false innocence and even-more-false nonchalance. "Dad. Hey."

The sheriff let his eyes flick briefly to meet Derek's. "Derek," he added with a polite nod, which the alpha returned.

"Sheriff. Sir." Had his voice just cracked? Probably, he mused, pretending the minute press of Stiles' thumb against his knuckle didn't ease the tension in his shoulders at all.

Because it didn't.

He was fairly sure Sheriff Stilinski wouldn't shoot him before Stiles could explain what had happened. Fairly. And the teen couldn't seem to grasp why Derek was so very uncomfortable, had been giving him amused looks the entire drive over, fingers tapping out a stacatto rhythm against Derek's palm.

Derek didn't know what the hell was so amusing about his healthy respect for officers of the law, especially since this particular officer of the law had cornered Derek in the supermarket shortly after discovering the truth about werewolves, and had (hand resting far too casually on his sidearm) proceeded to detail exactly how he'd remove Derek's legs (so he couldn't run, it seemed) and use them to beat Derek to death should anything unfortunate befall his only child.

Derek had believed him. There had been no fear there, no hesitation, no wavering or cardiac clues to tell him the sheriff didn't mean every disturbingly-graphic word. He wondered what it meant - when he didn't have anything else to occupy his time with besides a worn copy of _The Fifth Elephant_ - that the sheriff hadn't warned Derek away, hadn't refused to allow Stiles to associate with the pack, hadn't even hinted that he disapproved of that association.

Having known Stiles for a couple of years, Derek figured the most likely reason was that the sheriff knew his son, and chose to channel his efforts to protect him into something that might actually work rather than go toe-to-toe with the teen in a battle of wills. A fruitless battle if ever there was one.

Sheriff Stilinski was staring between them, face pinched as though he was experiencing the start of a very familiar sort of headache. There was amusement there, and Derek was sure he'd never seen such a solid similarity between father and son before. And where he was more than comfortable glowering his displeasure at Stiles when the boy tried to derive pleasure from Derek's misery, he wasn't about to try the same move on the man who had the kind of deep and involved knowledge of the cleanest methods of removing major limbs that Derek had previously associated with Hannibal Lecter.

"Honestly," the sheriff started, voice pitched a bit too high for him not to be laughing inside, "I'm happy for you both, if a little confused, but I didn't really have you pegged as a hand-holder, Derek."

The earth could swallow him at any moment.

"It's not..." he trailed off, flexing his fingers as best he could. "No. That's not what this is. We're not...not..."

"Dating?"

"Holding hands," Derek ground out, lips pulling back in an instinctive snarl.

Raising his eyebrows at their entwined fingers, the sheriff nodded slowly. "Okay." Then, because he was clearly Satan (which explained a lot about his perception of Stiles, who he'd pegged as the Devil's spawn years ago), the older man grinned. "But you are dating?"

"No!"

Stiles sighed. "Wow, nothing like vehement denial of any sort of affection, laced liberally with overtones of disgust and horror, to make a guy feel special."

"Shut up," Derek hissed. "This is your fault."

"Are you really going there?" Stiles levelled him with an unimpressed gaze that, ironically, kind of impressed Derek. "What are you, five? You're supposed to be the responsible adult here, you know, why am I always the one being reasonable? I'm a teenager. I'm supposed to be the melodramatic, angsty, immature one scrawling emo Simple Plan lyrics on my arms in Sharpie so I can post pictures of it on Tumblr. You're supposed to be the mature, reliable grown-up who doesn't freak out over stuff that's not really world-ending."

Jerking their hands up, Stiles gave them a little shake. "Does this look like a rivers-of-blood, sky-full-of-flaming-sulfur-and-a-rain-of-toads kind of apocalypse to you? No? That's because it's not. Call me when Robert Pattinson declares his unending love for the Twilight series, and I'll be happy to freak out with you, but until then, do you think you can maybe pretend that being magically superglued to me isn't your definition of the lowest circle of Hell?"

The sheriff wasn't even trying to hide his shaking shoulders now. He managed a snicker out, "At least you're only joined at the hand."

And, god, did that ever put things in perspective, the wolf thought, staring down at their hands with a new appreciation. Derek sighed heavily through his nose. "Fine. Whatever."

And it wasn't exactly Hell, he decided, although sitting on the toilet lid with his arm held out while Stiles did his best to render him deaf with an over-enthusiastic rendition of 'Waterloo' and purposely dripped sudsy water on Derek's wrist so that is ran down his arm and into his armpit came close to Purgatory, at least. They'd managed to work through the embarassment of using the toilet with company, which was really probably the biggest hurdle (although Derek managing to not strangle his hanger-on into silence when he spent a whole two hours mourning the fate of his favorite shirts, which the sheriff had been forced to cut him out of on account of them not being able to let go in order to get out of them). It was summer, so it wasn't as though Stiles had been forced to take time off of school. Even sleeping wasn't so much of an issue once they'd worked out a barrier constructed of throw pillows and a comforter to keep Stiles from latching onto Derek in his sleep like a pubescent squid.

There had been a bit of a wrinkle when Deaton had informed them that the spell could only be broken on the night of the "Dispute Moon", which was two weeks away.

"This is not how I wanted to spend my summer," Stiles had groaned.

"Right," Derek had replied, twisting to reach his free hand under their barrier to scratch at the wrist of his captured hand, "because this is my definition of fun."

Stiles had snorted. "Please. I am a veritable cornucopia of junketing."

"That's not even a word."

"Totally is."

"Is not."

"Oh, my God, are we really playing this game? Junket - to entertain, feast, or regale."

"You're making that up," Derek had mumbled petulantly, feeling oddly squirmy and discontent in his existence.

"Nope. Not even a little. It also means to travel, to go on a pleasant excursion as in a picnic, and as a noun it's a curdled milk thing, like custard."

Derek had turned his head away, toes curling restlessly as he tucked his free hand up under the pillow and tried (in vain, it turned out) to go to sleep, verys ure that this was not going in his file of favorite fortnights ever.

What followed was an interesting, albeit forced, study in Stiles.

Derek learned that Stiles didn't have much of a sweet tooth (as compared to other teens, that was), but that Reese's cups were the exception to the rule. He learned that Stiles liked sci-fi and fantasy novels, and that when presented with the possibility of not being able to play video games for two weeks, would put forth an admirable effort to learn to play with his toes. He learned that Stiles flushed easily, especially after a hot shower. He learned that Stiles preferred cream sauce on his pasta to tomato, but made tomato because of his father.

There were those things Derek learned - how Stiles' fear of losing his remaining parent manifested itself in a million little ways, like the healthy diets and pamphlets for gyms left in conspicuous places, and the underlying tone that resonated in Derek's ears when the sheriff left for work and Stiles shouted, 'be safe,' as though he could force the universe to form a protective bubble around his dad by sheer force of will.

He learned that Stiles could multitask as though he had three separate brains running at once, that he remembered things he read like his memory contained a card catalogue, that he was a puzzler. Not a New York Times Word Search kind of puzzler - Stiles was all patterns and connections and walls full of sticky notes connected with color-coded strings. He was shelves stuffed full of psychology and sociology, serial killer profiles and cultural reference books.

Derek wasn't sure what to do with all of the things he learned. Other than, of course, do his best to unlearn them. To unthink thoughts of Stiles wiggling around to ABBA in the shower and touching a spoonful of spaghetti sauce to his lips. To unnotice the thoughtful humming and small intakes of breath as he researched and pondered and worked through new mysteries. And especially, to unwish the stupid, stupid thing he wished every time Stiles' fingers tightened absently around Derek's own, long and pale against his rougher hands.

It had been a very stupid wish.

It wasn't, unfortunately, an unfamiliar wish. It was something that had niggled at him, occasionally and irritatingly, like a persistant mosquito, ever since Stiles had stupidly climbed into a squad car that contained a supposedly murderous werewolf because his curiosity far outweighed his sense of self-preservation. There was always something there, just on the edge of his vision, a low hum of emotional white noise. It meant nothing, Derek thought. Just the occasional glimpse into a life so unlike what he knew now. Something comfortable, natural, honest, not things he was accustomed to anymore.

And now he had to watch it get stirred into pasta sauce, had to smell it in eucalyptus bodywash and hear it in every cheesy pop song written in the last sixty years. And that was something Derek really, really didn't want, because it wasn't for him. Was never for him. Would never be for him. He hadn't earned it, and he never would, because Derek felt he was sometimes just too much of a moron to even figure out how to earn things like that.

By the time the Dispute Moon had rolled around, Derek's head was stuffed full of Stiles Things. Little things like his favorite Monkees song, random things like the way he organized his movies chronologically, pointless things like how he folded his socks. Which, compared to the big things (the way he kept his mother close in pictures and faded birthday cards and a cloud-soft, overstuffed quilt, but never talked about her; the way he stood with his shoulders squared and mouth pressed in a tight line in the face of Derek's misplaced anger, no longer even a little afraid), weren't all that world-shaking.

Still, it felt like too much. It was familiar, almost domestic, and it made Derek want to crawl out of his own skin, scrape Stiles out of his skull and run. It made him anxious, and he didn't much like being made anxious. He had enough going on in his life to fret over, Stiles and his inexplicable habit of worming his way into every pore and nook and cranny of Derek's life should not, could not, be added to the list. It was every bit too much as it felt.

After the casting, Derek stood in the circle for a bit, rubbing his thumb over the skin between his fingers and determinedly not cringing at how weird and loose his arm seemed to hang without Stiles tethered to the end of it. He kept his eyes on the lines of his palm, not really wanting to see how relieved the teen probably looked, not wanting to see nothing of what Derek felt reflected on his too-expressive face.

"You know," Deaton said blandly (purposefully blandly, rather than the usual cryptic-on-purpose-because-just-telling-you-what-y ou-need-to-know-to-not-die-horribly-is-just-making -things-too-easy-for-you blandness Deaton spoke with) when everyone else had gone, "there's a reason spells like that can only be cast in July."

Derek didn't answer, because he knew why. It was the same reason his kind tended to mate in July, and it made him very, very uneasy.

"It's called the Moon of Claiming. The full moon in July."

"So?"

"Just...curious, I suppose. About the whys and the hows."

Rolling his eyes, Derek twirled his car keys. "Well, when you figure it out, let me know," he grunted, though he was aleady certain Deaton had his own theories already worked out.

"I think you already know."

No, Derek thought as he turned his back on the Druid and made good his escape. He didn't know.

He didn't know anything.

At the back of his mind, though, a strange, prickly-warm thought pulsed electrically.

What, if anything, of Derek did Stiles now keep in his card catalogue memory? Had anything of Derek been tucked away in that frighteningly-observant brain? Did Stiles now carry a little bit of Derek with him, like Derek carried way too much of Stiles?

As he fell facedown on his bed, feeling like a round jello in a square mold and trying to force himself to ooze back into shape without Stiles' sleepy snuffling in his ear, he reminded himself that he wasn't supposed to care.

He just wasn't so sure he believed himself anymore.


	3. Arms Up

How Do We Rise Up

:::

03 : Arms Up

:::

by: stop-the-fading

::::::::::

Cliche thought or not, afterwards Derek would marvel at how everything happened so fast. One minute, he'd been arguing with Stiles in line for some kind of disgusting syrupy-slushy-drink-thing at the Circle K, and the next...

The next minute, Stiles was stepping in front of a stranger who was, unfortunately obviously, calling 911. And a breath later, there was noise and blood and Stiles was falling, weight dragging at Derek as the wolf caught him in his arms.

"I said don't move! Nobody touches their phones! You!" He aimed the shotgun at Derek. "Don't move!"

Derek slowly lifted his free hand, keeping the other pressed firmly against the bullet wound in Stiles' abdomen as he lowered himself down to lean back against the slushy machine with the teen leaning back against him. "I'm not moving. I need to make sure he doesn't bleed out."

The moron with the gun huffed a terrified laugh. "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck."

Derek couldn't help but agree.

Pushing back against Derek's chest, Stiles grimaced up at him in pain. "Holding me lovingly in your arms as I die? Really, Derek? We're going there?"

"Shut up. You're not dying." You're not allowed to die.

"Right." Derek must have pressed down a bit harder, because Stiles winced. "I totally believe you."

The shooter was still freaking out, still waving his shotgun around and demanding that everyone get down, and Derek was pretty sure he could disable him without risking getting shot and exposing himself to the patrons of the local convenience store.

Pretty sure.

"Don't," Stiles breathed, turning to press his cheek to Derek's shirt. "Too risky. Too many people, someone could get hurt."

"Someone else," Derek reminded him in a low tone.

Stiles flashed him a grin, which was ridiculous, because there was nothing amusing about having been shot. Derek would know, since he'd been shot more than once in his lifetime, and about 90% of those incidents occured after having met Stiles. "Hmm."

"I can't just sit here, Stiles," Derek hissed. "You need medical attention, and this guy might end up losing it and just shooting everyone. I have to do something."

Stiles shook his head. "Too risky," he repeated. "My dad's got it. He'll have a hostage negotiator here soon. You get too uncooperative, this guy probably will lose it and shoot everyone."

"I-"

"Derek." Struggling to turn sideways in the wolf's arms, Stiles reached up and grasped at the lapel of his jacket. "Shut up. Stay quiet and stay calm. Let the people trained to do this kind of thing handle it." He paused, settling back between Derek's legs and letting his fingertips brush against the hand Derek was using to keep pressure on Stiles' wound. "Trust me, okay? Just a little."

Derek nodded. "Okay. Okay. I'll keep out of it for now."

Of all the ways Stiles might have ended up in Derek's arms, bleeding from the gut after being shot by a trigger happy moron trying to hold up a convenience store wasn't one of the scenarios Derek had ever imagined.

Not that he thought about holding Stiles.

Much.

Things had been so awkward between them lately, and Derek could only blame the stupid hag that had stuck them together for two and a half weeks. Really, it was all her fault. And, well, yes, his subsequent avoidance of Stiles might have strained things a bit, sure. He could have been mature about it and not conveniently vanished - he didn't hide, hiding from someone you kind-of-sort-of-maybe-might have a crush on is something twelve year olds do - every time he heard the approach of Stiles' ancient Jeep. He just...didn't really want to.

It wasn't exactly a secret that Derek was, as Peter said (often and loudly), the Supreme Mugwump of Terrible Life Choices. He wasn't sure why it seemed that every choice he made, every time he tried to do the right thing, he ended up not only screwing himself over, but also everyone else within a five mile radius. Even his smallest decisions, like whether or not to stop when Stiles begged him for a slushy-thing even though they were meant to be meeting everyone to bind a wood nymph back into her tree in an hour. Every one of his choices. All of them.

It was a curse. It had to be. Derek made a mental note to talk to Deaton about it, before he ended up causing a nuclear holocaust by deciding to switch toothpastes.

Objectively, Derek knew that blaming himself for everything that's ever gone wrong in the world since the moment he was conceived could be considered laughably melodramatic.

Subjectively, he'd yet to see a decision he'd made not end up getting someone hurt.

"I'm bleeding on your booty jeans, dude."

Case in point.

"Booty jeans." Derek stared down at Stiles, who was looking up at the whirring slushy machine like he was considering asking if Derek would still get him one.

"Yeah," Stiles replied, looking back at the alpha and offering another slightly-pained grin. "Jeans that emphasize your bodacious badonkadonk."

"I don't have...Stiles, will you please shut up?"

The teen snorted as Derek shifted, trying not to jostle him too much. He was pretty sure Stiles wasn't supposed to be noticing his butt at all, much less which of his jeans said butt looked best in. Not that Derek himself was paying attention to that. And he definitely never wore them on purpose, such as when he knew he'd be alone with Stiles for any length of time, because on the scale of his life decisions, (one being Could Possibly Just End In Slight Maiming and ten being Everyone You Love Is Going To Die), trying to instigate any kind of a THING with Stiles Stilinski would be at least a seven (a.k.a. - There Will Be Screaming And Probably Blood). It wasn't even just that Stiles was human, or that he was Scott's best friend and it was awkward because Scott's status as pack was still fairly reluctant, or that Stiles was underage, which...christ. Those were all very good reasons for why a THING with Stiles would be a bad sort of THING, but they weren't the worst of it.

Trying to please Stiles with a cheap frozen treat had gotten the teen shot. Derek didn't want to know what might happen if he tried to flirt with him. There would probably be a volcanic eruption or an earthquake or something, and oh, God, Derek really needed to try thinking of a natural disaster that didn't sound like a sexual euphemism. People would get hurt, was the point, and Derek spent more than enough time getting people hurt already.

"You know," Stiles slurred in a whisper when the shooter was occupied talking to a police negotiator, "there's this puzzle I've been working on."

"Oh?"

"You know how much I like puzzles."

Derek sighed, the hand that wasn't slick with blood fisting in Stiles' shirt. "Yeah. What is it this time?"

There was no answer.

For a much-too-long second, Derek felt the world fall away. Then, quivering, he zoned in on the sound of Stiles' heartbeat. It was threadier than it should be, frighteningly weak, but it was there, and Derek let out a shaky breath, closing his eyes in case they were flashing red. Stiles was alive. He was going to survive. He would be fine.

Derek carefully gathered the unconscious teen closer, pressing his face into Stiles' hair for a beat before looking up at the shooter, who was staring at Stiles' slack face in horror.

"You're going to let us out of here," Derek growled, teeth bared, but human. "You're going to let me get him to a hospital, because this is the sheriff's only child. If he dies, what I plan to do to you will be a mercy killing compared to what the sheriff would do."

"I c-can't-"

Derek snarled. "Call in the EMTs, or I will shove that shotgun up your ass and pull the trigger."

Waiting for rescue was overrated, anyway.

That should have been the end of it - handing Stiles off to the EMTs, watching Sheriff Stilinski rush to the gurney, clambering in the back of the ambulance, giving a statement to the police. Going home and washing the blood out from underneath his fingernails, rinsing his mouth out until he couldn't taste the metal-and-gunpowder scent that had been in the air anymore. Tearing off his bloodied clothes and stuffing them down at the bottom of the garbage can, tying the bag off and hurling it into the Dumpster. Checking his phone with twitching fingers until Scott texted him that Stiles was stable and going to be fine. Finally, collapsing on his bed and pressing the ends of the pillow against his ears, trying to drown out the echo of gunfire and a too-weak heartbeat.

"You know," came Erica's muffled voice, "you could have called or something. Let us know you were okay."

Sighing through his nose, Derek peered at her. She crossed her arms, tossing her hair over her shoulder and pouting.

"Isaac called. He went to wait with Scott. Deaton took his sister, Peter, Lydia, and Boyd to do the binding thingy."

"And you're here because...?"

"Because we all know you're an idiot and that you'll just hole yourself up in your little Batcave of a room and brood dramatically about how this is all your fault like the emo asswipe you are. And because we care about you enough that we'd like to avoid letting you do that." She shrugged, slipping into the room and bouncing onto the bed, curling up against Derek's side. "Also, Lydia's better at Rock-Paper-Scissors, so I kind of had to stay and play guidance counselor."

"No, you don't. Go...do something else." He threw his pillow at her. "And I don't brood."

"You do. You're practically a pro at it. Angel brooded less when he got his soul back."

"What?"

Erica sighed, throwing the pillow back. "Just go to the hospital, okay?"

"Fuck you."

"Hey," she huffed, kicking him in the side repeatedly until he slipped off the edge of the bed and rolled to his feet, "you had your chance, Were-weenie."

And that, Derek realized with a bit of something akin to hope warming his heart, was actual evidence of a life choice he'd made that had ended in the best way possible. So maybe he was only a little cursed.

Stiles was propped up by the time Derek got up the nerve to stop...thinking, not brooding, never brooding...in his car and actually enter the hospital. The room was otherwise empty, and Derek's brow furrowed. He'd expected it to be full of everyone who wasn't up north butting heads with a dryad.

"I made them go have dinner," Stiles explained, picking at the sheet draped over his legs as he stared at Derek's shoulder.

"Ah."

Awkward silence, Derek thought, wasn't nearly as awful as people believed it was. It was an absence of saying awkward things, which would be much worse, and the resulting silence could therefore be seen as the lesser of two evils. It made it bearable, then, when Derek was left standing just inside the door, watching the lines of the EKG machine spike regularly, large cup clutched in his hands sweating cold condensation over his fingers.

"So...what's with the cup?"

Derek's gaze jerked to Stiles, who was actually looking at him now, though he averted his gaze when Derek tried to meet his eyes. The wolf looked down at the Big Gulp. "Uh, a slushy-thing. From 7-11. Since you...didn't get one." He stepped forward, setting it down heavily on the bedside table, and folded himself into the uncomfortable plastic chair the hospital provided.

"Don't know if they'll let me have it yet," Stiles mumbled, cheeks flushing, and Derek felt a bit stupid.

"Oh. Right. Sorry."

Stiles shrugged. "S'okay. Hey, listen, did I say anything...I mean, the last bit of...I don't really remember, it's kind of fuzzy, but did I say anything...embarassing?"

"You mean besides what you said about my 'bodacious badonkadonk'?"

The EKG chimed, jerking Derek's attention away from the deepening blush that was spreading to the back of Stiles' neck. The monitor settled back into normal sinus rhythm almost immediately, though, and Derek leaned back again. "No," he said quietly. "You were mostly trying to keep me from taking the guy out myself."

"Ugh," Stiles groaned, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, can we talk about that for a second? Between Scott's stupid Peter-Parker-great-responsibility mentality and your stupid martyr complex, I think I'm starting to come down with stupid-heroics-itis or something."

"Yeah," Derek rumbled, crossing his arms and tilting his head back challengingly, "let's talk about you, once again, running headfirst into dangerous situations with no regard for your own safety and leaving me to rescue you."

"Okay, for one thing, nine times out of ten it's us rescuing you because, again, stupid martyr complex. And for another, I'm not always running headfirst into things, okay? I'm the one with actual survival instincts, remember?"

"Right, so that time Jackson almost killed and/or drowned you because you wouldn't just run when I told you to, or the time you thought injecting a feral kitsune with a mountain ash serum on your own would be a good idea, or the time you fell into a ravine trying to play keep-away with a golem, those were all, what, anomalies? How about the fact that instances of you getting involved in situations humans shouldn't be in far outweigh the instances where you listen to one of us when we tell you to stay away? Do you need to play the hero so badly? Is it really worth your life?"

"You're a moron," Stiles snapped, sheet bunching up in his fists. "You really don't get it, do you? I mean, I knew you never really thought of me as pack, which is fine and all, but are you really that stupid?"

Derek bristled. "What part of that wasn't the truth, Stiles? What part of you taking a bullet for some random bystander isn't about trying to be a hero?"

"I'm not a hero," the teen ground out, face pale but for the angry heat splotching his cheeks. "I don't want to be a hero. I will never, ever be a hero, okay? I'm not..." He huffed, scrubbing his hands over his face. "I'm not like Scott with his gotta-save-em-all thing, or like you with your my-life-is-of-little-value-as-compared-to-others thing. I'm selfish, okay? I'm not gonna just go around rescuing babies from burning buildings with my underpants outside my tights. That's not me."

"You already do that," Derek sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I mean, not the underwear thing, but...look, you probably saved that woman's life, okay?"

"I didn't mean to." Off Derek's incredulous glower, Stiles spread his hands out and shook his head. "I know that sounds horrible, but I didn't mean to step in front of her, I didn't even think about it. And that's kind of what I meant with the whole stupid-heroics-itis thing. I've gotten so used to stepping in between the people I care about and the things trying to kill them - because they're just too selfless and ridiculous and dumb to save themselves - that I guess it's kind of turned into a reflex. I can't help it anymore." He narrowed his eyes at Derek. "You guys have given me a saving-people-thing. I actually think your reckless stupidity and melodramatic heroism is catching. And have I mentioned lately that I hate all of you and that you'd die without me? Because, and I don't think I've ever clarified this before, I mean that literally. You are all hopeless, and you would die without me around."

Which was very true, in ways Derek could never bear to tell Stiles about, but his thought process was too busy snagging on a new realization to say anything about that, anyway.

Because Stiles had said 'the people I care about', and he'd included Derek in that. 'You guys'. He was part of 'you guys', lumped in with people Stiles had just admitted to being willing to die for. Stiles dying to save Scott, or his dad, or Lydia, or...really anyone...it was a devastating thought, but not one Derek could deny having understood and accepted. Stiles dying to save Derek?

No.

No, that could never happen. It couldn't. Stiles wasn't that kind of person, that kind of hero. If it came down to it, Stiles would do the right thing. He'd let Derek die, wouldn't be stupid and brave and selfless, wouldn't value Derek's life so highly. Stiles would be selfish, and he'd survive. He had to.

Derek had never had a panic attack before, but he was pretty sure this was what one felt like, with the racing pulse and the inability to breathe properly. He couldn't be positive, because his head was full of a strange rushing noise and his vision was tunnelling, and-

"Derek! Derek, breathe!" Hands wound around his wrists, jerking him back to reality, bringing the room into sharp focus once more.

"You care about me?"

Stiles blinked at him, eyes wide and startled, lips parted in surprise. "Uh..."

Derek swallowed, coming back to himself a bit more. Humiliation roiled in his stomach, sickly and acid-hot. "No. Never mind. I don't..." His hands were shaking worse then they had been when he'd been washing Stiles' blood off of them. "It doesn't matter." He stood, motions jerky and robotic, and waved a hand at the Big Gulp. "If you can't have it, give it to Scott or something. Just...I'll see you, Stiles."

"Derek-"

"Feel better."

He wasn't running away, he told himself, barreling past Scott in the hallway and nearly slamming into the automatic doors when they didn't open fast enough. Alphas don't run away. They strategically retreat with alacrity and dignity. The latter of which, he admitted as he lunged into the Camaro and sat, shaking and gasping, was not something he had a lot of anymore. Still.

He wasn't running away.

Really.


	4. Knees Up

Derek tried very hard not to be cliche. It wasn't easy, especially since he was born to be a Hollywood trope. He didn't like thinking about that - it felt disrespectful to his kind - but it was no less true. It rankled all the more when his pack did annoyingly kitchy things, such as when Erica walked into a room like she was positive that everyone was imagining her doing so in slow motion, or when Peter tilted his head and smiled slowly before answering a question as though waiting for a camera to push in for a close-up. He really, really hated it when Isaac accused him of playing a high-octane electronica soundtrack when he worked out, like his morning routine was some kind of Balboa-esque montage.

It absolutely wasn't, and Derek resented the insinuation.

He knew that life didn't work like the movies - sometimes the countdown stops at seven, quite often people actually run out of ammunition, and it's not uncommon for the the guy to not get the girl so much as they decide mutually that their relationship is stilted and based on unrealistic expectations (usually perpetuated by Hollywood in a vicious cycle of societal romantic standards no real person could live up to) and go their separate ways. And not even the tragic-star-crossed-lovers sort of separate ways that Scott and Allison had perfected time and again, but actual separate ways where the guy marries a dental receptionist and lives blandly ever after and the girl joins the Peace Corps.

No, movies were movies, and life was life, and mistaking one for the other was all kinds of bad. Derek had enough trouble dealing with the ups and downs of his reality without the added disappointment of forgetting that it was, in fact, _reality_.

Which is why, when he reviewed the events of Halloween 2013, he would carefully and painstakingly edit what would have been the beginning of the big small-town-girl-transforms-into-sex-on-legs-by-wea ring-tighter-shirts-and-putting-on-lipstick reveal, had his life been a movie. Not that there was a reveal, because his life definitely wasn't a movie, but he still did exactly what the unsuspecting douchecanoe who had always overlooked said small-town girl usually did in those scenes. It hadn't even been on purpose, which really irritated him.

What had happened was, while answering the door, Derek had received a text, and so was looking in a general downward direction when he opened the door. Which, in turn, meant he did the classic toe-to-head gaze-drag that was so popular in films (because, Lydia explained once - despite Derek not having asked - Hollywood was obsessed with perpetuating women-as-objects and turned the majority of their resources towards satisfying the male gaze, and Derek had felt guilty for some reason, even though the only time he'd ever stared at a woman that way was when a movie forced him to, mostly because if any of his female relatives or companions had ever caught him doing so, they would have ripped his eyeballs out with their fingernails...including (especially?) his mother (and also, he had mentally corrected when Lydia had finished her twenty-minute hyperspeed rant about the patriarchy, because it was wrong to objectify women)).

Presently, though, his eyes focused past his phone for a second, and it wouldn't have been a big deal, but what his eyes had focused on forced a double-take (also annoying, who the hell does a double-take in real life?). His eyes were then drawn up past the shiny pumps with the ridiculous heels, up and up long, muscled, lovely legs clad in black fishnet stockings, a glimpse of pale thighs and suspenders. Then up over the hips hidden under silky black panties, skimming the lacey garter belt. Up past the not-quite-laced-up vest that glinted with sequins, the ring of large pearls around the long, lean throat, to the face, framed with dark curls. A familiar face, smiling at him with crimson lips and smoke-lined eyes.

Stiles' face.

"I...Stiles?"

Cocking a hip to one side, Stiles' smile widened when Derek fumbled with his phone, willing himself not to drop it as the teen slipped his other hand up the front of his sequined top. "How d'you do? I...see you've met my...faithful...handyman," he warbled, gyrating obscenely.

"What?"

"He's just a little brought down, because...when you knocked...he thought you were the...candyman." Reaching out, Stiles slipped his hand around to the back of Derek's neck and pressed close.

And waited.

Derek swallowed hard, staring at the plump pout of Stiles' Satan-colored lips and wondering if he'd fallen asleep and was dreaming. Actually, that had to be it, because Derek's life was not a movie, and there was no way anything in his reality was this perfect. In which case, his next words would probably be something suave and commanding, and he'd press Stiles up against the nearest firm surface and-

"You knocked," he mumbled.

What?

No, really. What?

"That's what I said," Stiles replied, frowning slightly and backing up. Derek stomped on the urge to reach out and pull him back. "'When you knocked...'"

"No, I mean...you knocked. Not me. It doesn't track."

Rolling his eyes, Stiles threw his hands in the air, moonlight glinting off the elbow-length fingerless gloves that were as sequin-studded as the vest. Corset? Vest, Derek told himself firmly, quashing thoughts of Stiles in a corset with vicious determination. For some reason, it was replaced by the realization that he could see Stiles' knees. Just thinking it made him feel distinctly...Roaring Twenties.

"Really, Derek? You're gonna heckle my performance? You're not getting into the holiday spirit, man," he added with a sniff, nudging Derek to the side to sashay (oh, God, when did he learn to sashay like that, what malevolent god gave him that ability?) into the house.

"Holiday spirit is a Christmas thing."

"And now you're heckling my protest to your heckling. Way to get into the swing of things, Derek."

And then Stiles, because he was inherently evil and had obviously decided that Halloween would be the perfect time to give Derek a fucking heart condition, collapsed sideways into the armchair, arms reaching up over his head, one leg crossed over the other in a parody of modesty. The long, stretched line of his body was emphasized by the tug of the vest, sliding up to reveal more of his flat, pale stomach.

Derek hated his life so, so much.

"Do I even want to know what you're doing here?" Dressed like sin, he wanted to add, but didn't. Just because his hatred for his life ran deep and infinite didn't mean Derek hated himself. "Dressed like Frank N. Furter?" he said instead.

Stiles raised an eyebrow at him incredulously. "You don't listen to a thing I say, do you?"

"Not if I can help it."

"Ha ha." Tipping his head back (don't stare at his throat, don't stare, don't don't don't), Stiles gestured vaguely at the ceiling. "Like I told you about, oh, a week ago, there's a Halloween party going on at Danny's, and the catch is group costumes - if you come with people, you all have to dress in a theme."

"And which genius picked Rocky Horror?"

"That would be this genius," Stiles replied easily, jerking a thumb at himself. "No way do we not win the costume contest like this."

Derek was willing to believe that. He'd give Stiles any prizes he wanted if he kept swishing around Derek's house in that getup. "And the rest of your group is..."

The sound of footsteps on the stairs told him that Isaac, Boyd, and Erica had probably been waiting for him to say that like it was a cue.

And Peter said Derek liked to make an entrance (which was absolutely not true, Derek just understood that intimidation and awe were key aspects of gaining the upper hand in a possibly-volatile situation).

He wasn't sure which of them made his burgeoning migraine worse - Erica as Magenta, Boyd as Riff Raff, or Isaac...

Isaac as Rocky, apparently, and Derek would need a lifetime of therapy to erase the sight of the curly-haired wolf in shiny gold underpants and, unfortunately for Derek's peace of mind, not much else.

"You're seriously going in public like that?"

Shrugging, Isaac grinned. "Not like I'll catch a chill," he said quietly, preening a bit when Erica reached out to ruffle his hair, her maid's outfit pulling up a bit.

Stiles stirred, standing up to study them critically. "Hmm." He circled Isaac, eyes narrow, mouth pursed in an exaggerated pout. Then, clapping his hands together, he smiled brightly and looped his arms around Isaac's neck, pressing up against his side. "Perfect Rocky for my Frankie! Scott, Allison, and Lydia are meeting us there, okay? So let's get a move on, or we'll be late!"

As they shuffled past, Boyd smiled comfortingly at Derek. "I'll keep an eye on him."

"I think Isaac can handle himself, gold panties or no gold panties," Derek snorted, going back to whatever ridiculous text Peter had sent him. Something about the auspices pointing towards anger and devestation tonight. Whatever that meant.

"I know he can. I wasn't talking about Isaac," Boyd replied lightly, hurrying to catch up to Erica, who was howling at the moon in a ridiculous parody of the real thing.

Derek hated his life so, so, _so_ much.

If things between Derek and Stiles had been awkward before the Circle K incident, it was nothing compared to how stilted and weird they were now. Stiles was constantly vacillating between outrageously flirty to the point of mocking and bitingly harsh and short-tempered. Derek, meanwhile, seemed to be stuck in a perpetual loop of saying lame things, generally making an ass of himself, and being genuinely, overwhelmingly confused by existence in general and Stiles in particular. Because, really, he hadn't understood Stiles before. The teen was a complete enigma to him now, like Jersey Shore or the whole 'swag' thing. He'd looked it up in the dictionary, and he had no idea what flower crowns or pirate loot had to do with popular music.

Maybe it was a Johnny Depp thing?

About an hour later, Derek had to revise his opinion on his life and its general overtones of despair and doom, because fishnet-and-sequin-clad Stiles Stilinski was pressed up against Derek again, hip-to-shoulder, dark cherry lips hovering over Derek's mouth tantalizingly.

Of course, Stiles was stretched out over him like a lover because they'd just been thrown off the balcony of Danny's parents' house by a poltergeist, and Derek had managed to turn them so that he'd take the hit, but he was counting it as a win.

Plus, Stiles smelled fantastic. Like mint and cinnamon and...arousal?

"Can you guy not? Like, just for a little while, maybe? Until I'm far, far away and won't have to see it?"

Derek glowered at Scott as Stiles pulled away, fingers settling unconsciously on the pale scar left by the moron with the shotgun some months ago. "Okay. So. Angry spirit."

"Yep," Lydia said, tilting her top hat at a jaunty angle. "I don't know what I expected, agreeing to go to a party with you guys. A nice, normal night? Clearly, I had a moment of temporary insanity."

Allison, shivering in her nightdress, twisted to look up at the house with a sigh and shouldered her quiver, crossbow dangling from her fingertips like it was a silk purse. "Okay. What do you do with ghosts?"

"Not let them kill people," Scott said firmly. Because, of course, turning around and leaving and letting the murderous spirit slaughter the entire junior class of Beacon Hills High had been what everyone but Scott was thinking.

"Right," Stiles said slowly as Erica, Isaac, and Boyd rounded the house, looking rumpled and exaspirated, but otherwise unharmed. "What else do you do with them?"

"Burn the bones," Derek suggested idly, watching as the windows and doors all slammed shut at once.

"What do you do with ghosts when you're not a character in an episode of Supernatural?"

Derek sighed. "I don't fucking know, Stiles. Put it to rest? Exorcise it? Hire a therapist to get it to talk about it's feelings? Do I look like the Ghost Whisperer to you?"

"You know what, Derek? If you're not gonna be helpful, you're welcome to leave," Stiles snapped, reaching up to tug off his off-center wig and toss it aside.

"You called me," Derek reminded him.

"Because for some reason, I thought you might have a clue as to what to do. God knows why, you're pretty much useless in every other situation, why not this one, too?"

"I'll try to remember that next time you're thrown off a balcony. I can let you take the hit instead, see how well you do with that."

"Could you guys try having your weird lover's quarrel sometime when a psychotic dead guy isn't trying to turn the Mahealani place into a slaughterhouse?" Isaac asked blandly.

"We're not..." Sighing heavily, Stiles shook his head. "Whatever. Yeah. Is there anyone here who knows what to do with ghosts?"

Allison had her phone out already, texting at the speed of light. "Dad might know something."

Which was how they ended up surrounding the house, chanting in Latin and drawing on the clapboards in raspberry jam ("What," Lydia had asked when they'd looked at her incredulously, "you want to use real blood? That's so unsanitary.") and trying to believe it was lamb's blood.

"I didn't mean what I said," Stiles mumbled as he and Derek worked side-by-side, spreading jam around in a series of archaic symbols. "I don't think you're useless."

"Just shut up and paint, Stiles."

"No." Pausing in his artistry, Stiles tilted his head, eyes seeming impossibly wide in the darkness. "No, what I said was...well, pretty awful. And I didn't mean it. I just..."

"Seriously, Stiles. Shut up. It's fine."

And it was, because just hearing the soft, apologetic tone in Stiles' voice warmed Derek. As did the slight quirk of lips Stiles offered him.

"I guess I've just been kind of...confused lately."

Derek could definitely relate to that.

"What with you being all contradictory and confusing the hell out of me, I mean."

Dropping his arm to the side, Derek stared at Stiles. "I've been...what?"

What?

"Yeah," the teen said with a shrug, picking up the slack and finishing the symbol. "I mean, after the whole thing with the hand holding-"

"That was a spell."

"-and the holding-my-guts-in while I was dying-"

"Jesus, Stiles, you weren't dying."

"-and I know you're attracted to me, I'd have to be blind not to notice that-"

"Are you out of your _mind_?"

"-and then you're all weird and you won't talk to me or even look at me-"

"I've been busy."

"-and I don't get you, dude. I mean, I practically offered it up to you on a silver platter when you opened the door, and you fucking heckled me."

Derek's ears were burning. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Rolling his eyes, Stiles muttered the Latin incantation softly, looking pleased yet unsurprised when the symbol glowed, apparently working in spite of the ingredients. Then, brandishing his sticky paintbrush, he pierced Derek with an accusatory look. "That. That right there. I don't get it. I spent the last few months thinking about the way you asked if I cared about you like it was some kind of pipe dream you'd never let yourself actually hope for. Like you don't even get that pretty much everyone here fucking cares about you. And, yeah, okay, you're kind of an asshole sometimes, but we care about you in spite of that, or maybe because of it, I don't know. And I know you have a...a something for me, maybe, and here I am, reciprocating as best I can, doing everything I can to get you to take things further, or at least let them get back to normal because fuck my life, I actually miss you and your stupid bitch-face, and I can't even tell if you're pushing me away on purpose, or if you're actually that obtuse, and you're just...oh, my God, you're hopeless."

Tossing his paintbrush away, Stiles stalked off, pert bottom swaying slightly as his heel click-clacked on the driveway, and that was about when Derek remembered that his loathing for his life was reciprocated in kind.

The rest of the pack milled about, watching as the doors and windows creaked open and guests started filtering out, terrified and bewildered. Boyd broke away to approach his alpha once more, clapping Derek on the shoulder in a brotherly fashion. "That right there? That was sad. Really. You worry me sometimes, Derek."

"I..." Blinking, Derek shook his head. "I don't understand."

"No," Boyd snorted, shaking his head mournfully. "I know you don't. That's what worries me."

When, tired and scuffed and punch-drunk, the pack gathered in front of the television at the house, Derek took a moment to look them over, the sounds of The Rocky Horror Picture Show emanating from the speakers quietly.

Scott and Allison were snuggled up so close on one end of the couch, they looked like one person, all tangled limbs and soppy smiles. Lydia sat beside them, cross-legged, her top hat up-ended in her lap and filled with candy, hair slipping from the tight, sleek bun at the nape of her neck. Isaac sat in front of her, sweats in place of his golden underpants, reaching back to steal a Fun Size Snickers from her when she wasn't looking. Boyd sat on Isaac's right, eyelids drooping sleepily, fingers tangled in Erica's hair as she stretched out on Isaac's left, head in his lap. And on the other end of the couch, curled up like a cat, Stiles breathed deeply in his sleep.

The feeling in his chest wasn't a new one, but for the first time, he felt it might be deserved, might have been well-earned.

Pride. He was proud of his pack, made of stitched-together scraps like a sad sort of quilt, but warm nonetheless. He realized, as he watched them huddle together, mumbling the audience's lines when they could remember them and throwing candy corn around, that even though he could never really take credit for the way this found family had come together, he'd at least done something right. For some inexplicable reason, they worked, and Derek suddenly really hoped that Stiles had been right. For all he bitched about his pack being a pain, they were his pack, and he cared about them, and would do his best to look out for them. He liked the thought that maybe they felt the same way about him. It made some of the tension ease, made him feel less like he had to dig his claws in to make them stay.

Later, he would remind himself that the best way for the universe to screw him over would be to let him love his new family to make the agony of losing them all the more potent. For now, though, Derek smiled, slipped his phone from his pocket, and snapped a quick picture, then rounded the couch and headed to bed.

The next day, he printed up the picture and framed it, setting it on top of the bookshelf in the hallway, and not even really caring that he wasn't in it.

Much.

(And if he printed out a picture Lydia sent him of Stiles, stretched out on one of Danny's chairs the way he had been sprawled out on Derek's early in the evening, eyes soft and mouth curved in a genuine smile, framing that one, too, well...no one had to know. Nobody went through Derek's sock drawer, anyway.)


	5. Arse Up

"Derek."

"Go away," he growled into his pillow tiredly.

Isaac didn't leave, because he was a little shit. He knocked again instead. "Derek, come on. You're an alpha. Alphas don't sulk, right?"

Derek growled a little more forcefully, shoving his head under the pillow and clamping it down. Unfortunately, his heightened hearing didn't allow for blocking Isaac out so simply.

"You can't spend the rest of your life hiding in your room, Derek. What will all the other kids think? Come on, think positive to be positive. Hold your head high and get out there and get back on the horse and things will turn out okay. Nobody's moved your cheese, you just need to actualize your inner selfness and you'll be fine."

"You're reading self help books again, aren't you?"

"And I'll stand here quoting them at you until you stop brooding in the dark like Edward Cullen."

What was with his betas and comparing him to vampires? Derek didn't brood, in the dark or otherwise. The current status of his lights (off) was incidental. Just because he was feeling too much like the lowest form of bottom-feeding life in the universe to bother getting up to flip on the lights didn't mean he was brooding in the dark. There was a big difference between being tired of trying and being enough of a twat to intentionally set mood lighting for sessions of self-loathing.

"Derek," Peter chimed in, his presence outside Derek's door heralded by the smell of laundry starch, oranges, and old books, "are you embarrassed about the enchantment? Because I've talked to Stiles. He said nothing terrible happened, you both just got a little over-emotional."

That, Derek knew, was the understatement of all time. He could still taste salt and skin, still smell heady arousal and feel that long, lean body underneath his...

"Did you say something?" His uncle wheedled, the manipulative fucker. Derek knew he'd just love to get his claws into this situation, just to make things even more confusing and humiliating, because apparently he had nothing better to do. Maybe the pack could pitch in and get the guy a gift card to a hobby shop. Get him into building model planes. Or kite flying. Something. Anything. "Maybe you finally told him about your adorable little crush?"

'Need you, crave you, want you. Always want you, never, never stop wanting you God yes please _Stiles_...'

"Derek, come on. Whatever happened, it's can't be that bad," Erica piped up unhelpfully.

Derek groaned.

"Come on, now, don't be a baby. You know what Stiles says. 'If it's not raining sulfur, it's not the end of the world.'"

"Go. Away."

"Lydia's texting me all kinds of threats now," Isaac offered. "She says if you don't get over your woe-is-me-my-pain-is-a-singular-and-special-kind-o f-pain attitude and talk to Stiles, she's going to come over here with a mountain ash branch and beat you to death with it."

Which reminded Derek suddenly that the sheriff probably owed him a good beating-to-death with his own limbs. Predictably, the thought didn't cheer him up.

It had seemed to make so much sense at the time. He knew it had been the fae's enchantment that had done it, had made them fall into bed together. Well, 'fall' was a nice word for it...

"You know, you only ever come over when you have work for me to do," Stiles had been whining, pouting at Derek prettily. And he hadn't been wrong - Derek had pretty much perfected the art of Stiles-avoiding, especially after Halloween (even though he had, more than once, allowed himself to indulge in the memory of Stiles pressed up against him warmly). When they were around each other, things were all business. Honestly, after his little speech outside Danny's house, Derek had expected Stiles to press the issue. He hadn't, though, seeming content to wait for Derek to make the next move. Derek, meanwhile, spent any time he couldn't avoid Stiles doing his best to avoid thinking about Stiles or wanting Stiles or having feelings for Stiles, which (he'd been told by Melissa McCall, of all people, who Derek hadn't even known was paying any attention to the situation at all) gave him something of a bland, wooden affect. Even Scott, who wasn't the quickest on the uptake, had noticed that things were pretty much at peak weirdness between the two of them.

The thing was, Derek couldn't even be sure why he was making things so complicated. It couldn't just be because of Kate, could it? Because that would just figure - dead and buried and the bitch still fucked him over. And it would have been ridiculous. Stiles wasn't Kate. Derek knew Stiles, knew him better than he'd let himself get to know anyone in a long time. Certainly better tahn he'd known - or thought he'd known - Kate. He trusted Stiles, didn't he? And he knew that the teen had a kind of a thing for him, one that was overwhelmingly, breathtakingly reciprocated. So what was it?

The fact that Stiles was underage? his brain would constantly supply. That it would make the already shaky politics within the pack more uncertain if Scott objected? Or maybe because whatever Stiles felt for Derek, it was clearly not as deep and terrifying as what Derek felt for Stiles (because it couldn't, wouldn't be, Derek knew, he _knew_ what Stiles was like when he was in love, had watched him fawn over Lydia for so very long). That there was always a catch, always a fall to take? Was it that Stiles was good, so very good, and that Derek would undoubtedly ruin whatever they gained? The fact that, despite trusting Stiles, Derek could never trust himself to make the right choices, for himself, for Stiles, for the pack?

His brain had been running in circles since...since he'd been chained upside-down to Stiles over a witch's potion, bantering with the kid in spite of his better judgement, because he just _couldn't resist_, and it never seemed to get any clearer. Being near Stiles had only ever made things more muddied and confusing, especially when Stiles was quiet and contemplative, pinning Derek with an assessing gaze, waiting more patiently than Derek had imagined he could. So, yes. As Derek had fidgeted in the corner of Stiles' bedroom that morning, watching the teen print out page after page of connections and deductions and theories, he hadn't been able to bring himself to argue that he had, in fact, been avoiding Stiles like the teen carried some kind of werewolf plague.

It was for the best.

"So," Stiles had said, doing his best to make eye contact despite Derek being determined to stare holes in his shoes, "I think it's probably a Sidhe."

Derek had actually looked up at that, too startled to remember not to meet Stiles' gaze, but not so startled that he didn't still feel the brief shiver that ran up his spine at the intensity of it. "How the hell could you know it was female?"

"It's not," Stiles had replied, rolling his eyes. "I said 'Sidhe,' not 'she'. _Shee-thuh_. It's an Irish elf or fairy. And, well, yeah, it could be a female, I guess. Do fairies really have a gender, though? Aren't they, like, unisex? Or hermaphroditic? Like frogs?"

It had taken a moment for Derek to tear his eyes from the adorable scrunch of Stiles' brow and the way he chewed lightly at the corner of his lip and focus on the point of that little rant. "A...I'm sorry, you think the thing causing all the chaos around here is a leprechaun?"

"Well," the teen had said distractedly, pulling up an article that looked to be written in some kind of Ye Olde English font for reasons unknown, "leprechauns are a type of Sidhe. It could be that, or a far darrig. They both like a practical joke."

Derek had sighed, would have opened his mouth to comment on the fact that it had taken the fire department two hours to cut Mrs. Allister's cat out of the middle of her apple tree (in which it had become mysteriously trapped, only visible by the little nose poking out through the bark on one side and the tail snaking out of the other), and that neither the cat or its owner would think of that as a harmless prank, but in that instant, a small, clear orb had dropped out of Stiles' ceiling and smashed on his floor. Instantly, Derek had rushed to Stiles' side, grabbing him and preparing to escape the room. Before he could, a cloud of silvery-pink..._glitter_, for lack of a better term, had enveloped them, getting into their eyes and nostrils, and vanishing an instant later, leaving behind no trace.

No trace, that is, except for Stiles' fingers suddenly tugging at Derek's hair, mouth slotted against the alpha's, their bodies pressed tight and warm together, and Derek had...let him. Encouraged him. Wrapped his arms around Stiles' waist and pulled him closer, tighter. And from there, it hadn't been a fall into bed so much as a shove-and-tackle, and Derek had pretty much shredded Stiles' clothing beyond repair.

Neither of them had cared much.

It had been brutal and unapologetic, and, God help him, absolutely mind-blowing. Even now, hours later and having nearly managed to shower Stiles' scent off, he could hear the sweet little gasps and moans Stiles had made, feel his teeth digging into Derek's jawline and throat, could feel the hot-tight-slick perfection and the sudden shudders that had wracked Stiles' frame when he came, Derek's name tumbling from his soft, kiss-bruised mouth like a prayer. The image of his flushed face, eyes shut tight as he said it again and again - 'Derek, Derek, finally, Derek, fucking finally' - even now it made Derek's breath catch in his throat.

Groaning again, Derek curled up and tried to make the world go away by force of will. Deaton kept saying that with a strong enough will, anything was possible. Derek knew now that he was full of shit, because everything kept going on around him as though that morning had never happened.

There was a sudden scraping at Derek's door, metal-on-metal, and in a moment, the lock clicked and Boyd slipped in, chin jutting out defiantly as though he expected Derek to attack him for breaking and entering.

Granted, Derek was considering it, but it would involve moving, so...meh.

Boyd perched cross-legged on the end of Derek's bed, shoving his feet to the side unceremoniously when Derek stubbornly refused to make space. "I made them go away," the larger teen said quietly, even as Derek noticed the sudden silence in the house, the absence of scent and sound and soul that mean the pack was in residence. It was just Derek and Boyd, and he knew he was about to get one of those supremely irritating heart-to-heart talks all those 90s family sitcoms loved to do. Derek wondered if he was meant to start.

He made a loud snoring sound instead.

Sighing, Boyd leaned forward and grabbed the pillow from Derek, tossing it across the room. "Listen, Derek, I know shit's been tough. The whole thing with Jackson and Peter being...well, Peter. And then the whole things with Erica and I leaving..." Derek squinted his eyes open a bit to peer at Boyd when he trailed off. The beta was rubbing the back of his neck, every line of his posture screaming 'regret'.

None of them liked to talk about it - Erica and Boyd had spent weeks trying to find ways to apologize once they'd gotten free of Gerard, with Derek blocking them at every turn, because as far as he was concerned, that was every bit as much his fault as it was theirs. If he'd been a better alpha, a better person, they would never have felt they needed to leave. He felt that now was as good a time as any to address it, though.

"That was...probably the smartest thing you ever did," Derek admitted. "I wasn't exactly doing my best to look out for you. When an alpha isn't doing their job, it's up to the betas to take matters into their own hands and choose a new alpha, or at least petition for the old alpha to step down."

"Yeah, well, see, that's the thing. That's not what pack is about, is it?" Boyd leaned back against the bedpost. "I mean, yeah, it's up to the alpha to protect the pack and look out for them, because the alpha needs his betas, right?"

Derek nodded, brow furrowed.

"Well, the same is true in reverse, isn't it? Betas need their alpha, so it's up to them to look out for him and make sure he's not taking everything on himself. It's not all up to you, is what I'm saying. You know that, right? That we want to help you out, take care of you so you can be the best alpha possible? Because we do." Boyd shrugged, looking intensely uncomfortable, and Derek felt a sudden surge of kinship with the teen. He didn't think he'd ever heard Boyd say so much at once, and the guy wasn't even done. "You make mistakes, Derek, but everyone does. At least you take responsibility, right? But you don't have to do things alone, not anymore. You've got me, and Isaac, and Erica, and Peter. And you have Scott, and Lydia, and, yeah, Stiles, because you don't ever get Scott without Stiles. And where Scott and Stiles go, so go their parents. And you have Deaton. Even Allison and...yeah, I can't really continue with that," Boyd finished, nose scrunching up in an expression Derek was sure he'd picked up from Erica. "I mean, she's badass and all, but once someone's been the Uruk-Hai to your Boromir, you kinda just can't. But, yeah, she and her dad would help if it was for the greater good, you know that. So you're not alone. You have your pack. So let us help."

Swallowing against the tightness in his throat, Derek breathed a sigh through his nose. "Yeah. Yeah, okay."

"Okay." Boyd shifted. "So, you wanna tell me what the fuck is up with you and Stiles? I mean, besides the obvious part where you're stuck on each other worse than Scott and Allison."

Derek groaned. "Go away now."

But Boyd was grinning, having no doubt picked up on the sudden raise in Derek's pulse and the hitch in his breathing. "Something happened, you came home with glitter in your hair looking wrecked and smelling worse. Come on," he added, smirk widening. "I came to you with all my embarassing Erica stuff."

"Yeah, that's not making me feel better. That was incredibly uncomfortable."

"Hey, you wanted to help," Boyd replied easily with a shrug. "And now I'm gonna return the favor, so start talking, or I'll get the rest of them back here and we'll sit on you until you give in."

Groaning again, Derek rolled over on his back and flung one arm over his forehead (and, yeah, so maybe he was a little dramatic sometimes, so what?) and started talking.

He spilled everything, from the first moment he'd spotted Stiles wandering around in the foliage with Scott, to the slowly burgeoning respect he'd developed for this scrawny-looking smartass who was so terrified so often and yet never backed down. He rambled about the way pushing Stiles up against walls had started as intimidation, then became a sort of game to see if he could get Stiles to back down, to submit. He babbled about Stiles' expressive, ridiculous eyes, the cute little upturned nose, the plush curve of his mouth. He waxed poetic about Stiles' moles and how he wanted to trace them with his tongue, about how intrigued he'd been when Stiles began letting his hair grow out, how soft he imagined it would be. He talked about Stiles playing lacrosse, how surprisingly good he was out it, how well-suited his analytic mind was to on-field strategizing. He talked about watching the games from afar, even though he knew it was creepy, knew there was something wrong with that.

He admitted to how, in the beginning, when it had just started to evolve from respect into something more, it was just fascination, the need to figure Stiles out, which had been something of a pipe dream, because _Stiles_. How the teen made him feel connected again, like something was tethering him to society and civilization, keeping him from hiding away in the woods like some kind of leather-clad hermit. He talked about being unable to stay away, unable to stop poking and prodding and engaging and learning.

He recapped the events of the hag's spell that had stuck them together. He talked about healthy food and black-and-white movies and the way his books were organized and all the classic rock records he had. He talked about sleeping beside Stiles, how weirdly comforting it had been to have the sound of his slow breathing there. He recounted arguments they'd had over doing dishes and who got the shower first and whether or not jeans belonged on hangers. He explained that there was some kind of ABBA switch in Stiles' brain that was flipped when he was at his most content, how Derek hadn't been able to get fucking 'Waterloo' out of his head for weeks afterwards.

He talked about about the Circle K shooting in a wavering tone, how terrified he'd been when Stiles had gone silent and still in his arms. The hope and awe and suddenly panic when he'd discovered that Stiles thought of Derek as family, as pack. He talked about Halloween, how tense and confused he'd been. How much he'd wanted Stiles then. How Stiles had made him look at his pack, really look, and see how much they actually worked. He spoke of his sudden fear of losing them.

He talked about his fear that letting Stiles in would end horribly, that something would happen to ruin it. That Derek would ruin it. That it would drive a wedge between Derek and Scott, or worse, between Stiles and Scott. That Stiles was too young, didn't really know what he wanted, didn't really understand what being with Derek would mean. Or, the one that terrified Derek the most, the thought that Stiles didn't want Derek as much as Derek wanted Stiles. That he'd try for a while, that he'd give up or drift away or not do either and just keep trying and, God, Derek was so fucked.

There was a long moment of ringing silence when Derek stopped blathering during which Boyd stared at him with a sort of morbid fascination.

Then, slowly, he reached for his cell phone and tapped out a text. As he waited for a reply, he returned to staring at Derek.

"Okay," he started slowly, nodding slightly. "Okay. I think I've got the solution to this."

Which was ludicrous and impossible, and Derek sat up, pointless hope welling up inside. "Great. Care to share?"

"Yeah. Stop being a nutsack and take what you can get while you can get it," Boyd replied flatly, shrugging.

Derek scowled.

"I'm serious, Derek. Dead serious." Sighing, the larger wolf gestured around with one hand. "Look at yourself, Derek. You've got the smallest room in a house you had to be convinced to rebuild even a little, filled with nothing. You've got essentials, and that's it. You won't take anything of your family's, anything that was yours before the fire out of storage except for books, and even then, it's just because they're useful, and I'll bet it's because you're expecting something terrible to happen again, and then everything will be lost. You keep us all at arms' length because you expect us to leave, willingly or fatally. You're avoiding this thing with Stiles because you're so used to everything in your life just being temporary - family, belongings, home, love, all of it. And it's just sad, Derek. Yeah, shit happens, to you more than most people, and that's not fair, but there it is."

"And, what, I'm supposed to just...just..."

"Just be happy," Boyd said gently. "Be as happy as you can for as long as you can, and then if - _if_ - things go to shit again, at least you'll have had a little bit of something. Look at is as a big 'fuck you' to whatever angry gods are so keen on shitting on your life. Be happy to spite the bastards. Hold on too tight to things, keep the people you care about a little too close for their comfort, and be happy now, because that's pretty much the only thing that'll get you through being sad later."

Which...made a weird kind of sense. Derek gaped at Boyd. "I..."

The betas phone chimed, and he opened the text and grinned. "And on that note, I'm supposed to kick you out of here and make you go talk to Stiles, who you will find at the phallic-looking overhang." He looked up at Derek, eyes glowing as he stood and flexed a bit. "Are you gonna go easy, or do I have to drag you there?"

It was a strange sensation of anticipation, the way it felt when you'd reached the top of the first big climb of a rollercoaster, anxious and terrified and somehow excited for the drop, that filled Derek's gut. He breathed deeply. "I don't think-"

"Derek. When I said I'd drag you, I meant it." He flashed his phone at his alpha. "Stiles wants to talk to you, man. The least you can do is go hear him out."

"I..." Swallowing, he took another deep, soothing breath, and stood. "Right. Okay. I can...I can do this." He blinked, shoulders relaxing. "I can do this," he repeated softly, because it was true. Astoundingly, simply, wonderfully true. He could absolutely do this, could push off the precipice and into whatever it was he and Stiles were building. He could handle it, and he could handle whatever came after, be it joy or pain. He could work through it, could make it out the other side, could _survive_. Survival, he remembered Laura telling him, was what you did when you had to, when it was that or death. Survival was for when it was all you could do when it hurt too much to get out of bed, when the idea of living was just too much.

Surviving would come later, when things went wrong again and there was blood and screaming and death. Surviving was for afterwards. Right now, he was meant to be living.

"I can do this," he said again, making for the door.

"Yeah," he heard Boyd murmur behind him, "you can."

It didn't take him long to get to the bluff (which really did look like a giant erection, something the less mature members of his pack liked to giggle over and come up with terrible names for - Derek's current favorite was Shag Crag), especially since he was, suddenly and relievingly, done with waiting around.

Stiles, apparently, was just as done. He opened his mouth as soon as Derek approached, not even bothering with hello, which shouldn't have been adorable, but it somehow was. Especially because he was bundled up in about six layers and looked squishy and precious with his chill-red cheeks framed by ridiculously fluffy earmuffs, the bobble on his knit hat wobbling as he waved his mittened hands around, and yeah, Derek kind of loved Stiles. A lot.

"Okay, so, I had some glitter in my hair afterwards, and I had Scott take it to Deaton, and he said...well, a lot of things that basically amount to 'fairy dust', which, just...I don't even know what to do with that, dude. But, apparently, it's a specific kind of fairy dust. It doesn't cast a lust spell or anything, just kind of...grows what's already there, and it wouldn't have worked on either of us like that if there wasn't something there for it to work on, and Derek, this is exactly what I've been talking about," he finished with a huff, pinning Derek with a disgruntled gaze.

And, okay, yes, he had been talking about the reciprocal nature of Derek's feelings. And even now, Derek couldn't shake the paranoia that Stiles wasn't as invested as Derek was, but he didn't know that, couldn't know that until he asked. Before he could, though, Stiles plowed on, turning to face Derek fully, back to the sunset over Beacon Hills, and God, was this ever the most cliche chick-flick moment of Derek's life.

He couldn't really bring himself to care, because the golden light make Stiles' eye glow, and he felt his lips twitch into a fond smile without a thought.

"I know you have feelings for me, Derek, okay? You're not really the master of subtlety, which I find hilarious, by the way, considering your skills as a creeper. And you can't possibly have missed the way I feel about you, can you? I mean, yeah, so maybe you have some doubts, which I don't get at all. Like you think there's no way I could possibly feel about you the way you feel about me and _oh my God_, that's about Kate, isn't it?"

Wow. Of all the moments Derek didn't want Kate intruding on, the romantic meeting with the love of his life where he confessed his heart (somehow, he was going to do it...he'd figure out how, it couldn't be that hard) was near the bottom of the list.

Stiles seemed to agree, because his face scrunched up in displeasure. "Dude, you have got to stop letting her fuck with your life. She's dead, thank God, and I don't care how bad a person it makes me to be happy about it, but she's dead, Derek, and if you really think I'd...I'd lead you on or pretend to feel things I don't...you know me better than that, I know you do."

"I do," Derek agreed softly, shoving his hands into his pockets.

"Right. So you know that...I mean, come on," Stiles cried, hands flapping at his sides like lame wings. "Derek, this is probably one of the most fucked up, bound-for-strife relationships I've ever tried to have. This has been one long, painful struggle, just to get to a point where I think you might be able to admit to actually wanting something with me out loud, and why the hell would I bother going through that if I didn't fucking love you?"

Derek's smile widened into probably the stupidest grin he'd ever grinned, heart feeling as though it might burst, and he surged forward, wrapping Stiles up in his arms, feeling cold lips press against his jaw briefly. "I know," he whispered roughly. "I didn't...but I know. Now. I can do this now." I can hear this now, he didn't say, but it hung in the air around them. I can believe it now.

Stiles sighed, hands slipping under Derek's jacket, the rough wool of the mittens scratching over Derek's spine as the teen did his best to wriggle closer. "You're such an idiot, Derek. You have to make everything seem so hard. Everything's got to be a struggle with you, like you have to earn things with blood and tears. It's not like that. It can be easy, I promise."

"Mmm."

They stood like that for a long moment, a little bubble of warmth in the rapidly-freezing winter air. Then, squirming a bit, Stiles leaned back and pinned Derek with deadly serious eyes.

"I won't ask you to say it," he announced, chin lifted in determination. "I won't ever ask you to say it, okay? I know you've got this talking-about-feelings thing, so I won't make you say it back."

Derek nodded, turning his head to press his nose against Stiles' temple. Then, shakily, he sang, "I still don't know what you've done with me, a grown-up werewolf should never fall so easily. I feel a kind of fear when I don't have you near. Unsatisfied, I skip my pride, I beg you dear..."

Stiles snorted, long and loud, before bursting into giggles. Derek felt like his face was catching fire, and he leaned down to hide it against Stiles' parka-clad shoulder. He hadn't thought it had been that bad. He was even on key and everything.

"Derek," Stiles breathed finally, rubbing the back of the older man's head and scratching lightly, "are you trying to woo me with ABBA lyrics?"

Derek shrugged as best he could in their current position, tilting his head and running his nose along Stiles' jawline. "You like ABBA." He paused. "I...you like ABBA, don't you?" Because he knew all their songs and all the words and had, Derek thought, some kind of dance routine walked out to a few of them that he'd done in the shower. Which, yeah, Derek thought about a lot. Quite a lot.

"I...yeah," Stiles affirmed, still petting Derek comfortingly, as though he knew how his laughter had stung. "I like ABBA. I do, really. Just...I didn't know you did."

Derek said nothing, opting to hold Stiles closer instead, but the teen wiggled away, holding onto Derek's shoulders and watching him with narrowed eyes.

"You...you don't like ABBA," he said slowly, and Derek could see him working through the puzzle. "You complained about it non-stop. And that's not one of the songs I sang, the only way you'd learn the lyrics is if you'd looked them up, or...or listened to it. Derek." Stiles' lips twitched. "Derek, did you listen to ABBA for me?"

Shrugging, Derek tried to pull Stiles to him again. "It's on the radio sometimes."

"Pfft. No. It really, really isn't. Derek, have you been listening to ABBA this whole time? Just because I like it?" Seeing the answer in Derek's shifty stance, Stiles took a deep breath and let it out, shaking his head with a goofy grin. "Dude," he started, somehow making the word sound ike the sappiest epithet in the world, "you seriously love me."

Derek rolled his eyes, reaching out again and succeeding in pulling Stiles to him. "Shut up, Stiles."

"You looooove me."

"Seriously. Shut up."

"Nope. Never. And you won't make me 'cuz you looooove m-"

Honestly, Derek wished they'd gotten to the point where kissing was a thing they did a lot sooner, because besides being warm and perfect and feeling like coming home and every other soppy, sentimental cliche he could think of, it did a marvelous job of making Stiles shut up.

The little things in life, Derek decided as he pressed Stiles up against the nearest tree, were really the best.

xxx

Epilogue? Because I'm Nice And Also I Have This Whole Big Headcanon About Stiles' Mom And ABBA And I Want To Share It With You All

xxx

Derek stared at Stiles incredulously.

"No, I'm serious. Totally true. Scott's a die-hard ABBA fan, too."

"I just..." Derek shook his head, tucking Stiles up against his side when the teen came to join him on the couch. "I just don't see it. I've heard the music he listens to. I don't get it."

Stiles squirmed a bit before stilling, letting out a slight sigh and resting his head against Derek's shoulder. "It was my mom."

Derek froze.

"She was obsessed with ABBA - had all the records, knew the words, went to the concerts. She had whole dance routines worked up for all the songs. When I was little, she'd put the records on while she cleaned and cooked, and I'd follow her around and dance along and all that. And when Scott's dad left, and Melissa was working double shifts so they could get by, Mom would watch him, too. She used to stand him up on the dining room table so he could sing 'Dancing Queen'. Swear to God, dude," Stiles added with a soft smile when Derek snorted. "She taught him her whole routine. There's video of it somewhere. After..." He cleared his throat, and Derek waited, not wanting to interrupt. "After she died, and Dad was kinda checked out for a while, I'd sit in my room and listen to all of the records on repeat. Scott would come and sit with me, and after a while we'd just sing along as loudly as we could and dance like idiots. You know, kind of...loving it, for her. In her stead. So...yeah. ABBA means something to us."

Humming quietly, Derek curled tighter around Stiles and pressed a kiss to his temple. "Thank you," he whispered. "For telling me."

Stiles shrugged. "Thank you," he retorted, "for being the best boyfriend ever and agreeing to sit through Mamma Mia! with me."

"The things I do for love," Derek agreed with a put-upon sigh, mostly because every time he said 'love', Stiles' whole face lit up.

"Love you, too, you big were-weenie." Then, because Stiles was all kinds of perfect, he turned to Derek as the wolf pressed play and smiled widely. "It means something new to me, you know. Something special. Just...FYI."

Biting back a goofy grin, Derek kissed him again and sat back to watch the movie.


End file.
